


Catch You Later

by lapetitesinge



Series: Darkship Prompt Meme [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-03
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-22 04:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapetitesinge/pseuds/lapetitesinge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim has a bit more to say to Sherlock once he gets him on his own. After all, it's really always been about the two of them. Alternate ending to the last few minutes of "The Great Game."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch You Later

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "take everything you've got" prompt at the Darkship Prompt Meme and posted at LJ.

_Down and down we'd go; how low, no one would know  
Sometimes the good life wears thin  
I wish I had an evil twin_

  
Sherlock gives a rare, brief smile, which John returns. Then he gets somewhat unsteadily to his feet. "Best, er, be on our way, don't you think?" he asks, and glances almost involuntarily back up at the darkened ceiling of the room, to wherever the sniper might still be lurking.

"Yes. Quite," Sherlock nods, returning to his usual brisk manner. Then he looks past John at the jacket still lying innocently on the floor, and takes a half step towards it. "You go on," he says. "I'll be along in a minute."

"Sherlock." Now John sounds like his usual self too—slightly exasperated, but unsurprised, as though he already knows that there's no point on in trying to dissuade him when he's got his mind on a puzzle. "You can't actually want—"

"I just want to check something," he says, and when John doesn't move, Sherlock gives him an impatient wave, using the hand still holding the gun without quite meaning to. John leans automatically out of its range, stepping closer to the door between the red- and blue-curtained cubicles.

"You want to be careful with that, maybe," he says warily. "A fine thing it'd be if  _you_  shot me after all this."

"Right, yes, sorry." He stows it back in his pocket, and John pushes the door, looking at Sherlock over his shoulder as he goes.

"Make it quick, won't you?" Sherlock gives him a quick nod and the door swings closed. John can't be in the room for this, just in case something goes wrong. He has to check, though; he just has to know how it works, the strange two-way radio that allowed him— _Jim_ —to speak to his victims and hear both their terrified sobs gasping out the words he fed them, as well as the other voice—his, Sherlock's, more often than not, and yet not be heard himself—it was fairly ingenious, really.  _How does it work?_  He crouches down beside the down coat, which is in that distinct brown-green army shade, no less; it crosses his mind that Jim may have chosen that on purpose so the good doctor could die in his proper uniform. He reaches out a hand tentatively towards the wires stitched into the fabric.

"My, you  _are_  a predictable thing, aren't you."

Sherlock jumps to his feet again, his hand going automatically to his side. Jim is strolling back into the room, hands in his pockets again, casual as can be. "I knew you just couldn't resist." He wags a finger reprovingly. "Curiosity, my dear little cat. Hasn't it gotten you into enough trouble?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock replies coolly, his hand closing over the metal in his pocket, still hot from his touch. "Of course, one could say the same of you, as you're still here."

"Well, you didn't really expect me to  _leave_  you, did you? Not after  _that_." He waves the same finger between the floor where John had just been sitting moments before and Sherlock. "He really is a little tease, isn't he?"

"And just what does that mean?" Sherlock forces himself not to take his gaze from Jim, to not look out the door where John is surely waiting, wondering what's keeping him.

"Oh, come now." Jim smirks, and then adopts an innocent, gormless expression. "'You, ripping my clothes off, people might talk,'" he mocks, and shakes his head. "And after I was sporting enough to let you both go, he has to go and make me  _jealous._  Not very good manners."

"How did...?" The question dies on his lips as Jim pulls a tiny earpiece from his pocket and waves it, as if answering Sherlock's question about the device he'd been using. "You really can't blame me for wanting to know what you schoolgirls giggle about when you think no one's listening, can you? And I've sent him away, you know," he adds, apparently noticing Sherlock's eyes flicking up to the upper level of the room for the merest second. "I thought it should just be the two of us for a moment. Bit classier that way, don't you think?"

"Not quite." Jim chuckles and takes a few steps closer, but Sherlock doesn't move. "Just what do you mean, 'jealous'?" It seems essential to keep him talking, for some reason, as though it might distract him from doing anything else, although Sherlock knows that if he doesn't leave soon, John will return and find them there, and then he'd call the police intervene again—he still can't quite believe he'd done it the first time; no one in memory had ever done anything quite that ridiculous and brave for him—and that just couldn't be. This is between the two of them alone.

"Well, perhaps it's childish, but I really don't much like anyone playing with my toys, I'm afraid," he replies with a feigned wince. "Especially not one as marvelously entertaining as you. And especially not when it's someone like  _him._ " He jerks his head towards the door through which John had disappeared. "That's just insulting."

"And why might that be?

"You know why." His gaze never leaves Sherlock's face, and his mouth quirks into that same dangerous half-grin as before. "You know he's not like us. I can see why he  _amuses_  you, of course; it's always nice to keep an admirer around, isn't it? But really, we mustn't pretend this can go on much longer."

"We're nothing alike," Sherlock retorts, wanting to avoid the subject of John. As if on cue, the door beside them rattles, the sound echoing loudly around the tiled room, but it doesn't open. Something sharp and cold seems to shoot through his whole body as he hears John call "Sherlock?" from just outside. 

Jim glances over at the door, looking unconcerned. "Locked from the outside," he stage-whispers. "See, now, that's just what I mean.  _You_  would've guessed that."

"Sherlock, are you in there? Are you coming along?" John calls again, his voice more urgent now, still trying to open the door. Sherlock stands frozen, still watching Jim, unsure. It's not a feeling he's used to, and yet it's becoming more familiar as of late. Jim just chuckles. "Do tell him to go away," he says, his voice still lowered. "Some people just can't take a hint." When Sherlock does nothing, Jim smiles wider, but his eyes darken. "Tell him, or I'll take care of him myself. Now."

"I think you're bluffing," Sherlock retorts, forcing his voice to sound calm as his mind races: it would take someone approximately four minutes to run all the way down from the second floor of the pool room into the lobby where John is, possibly more if he's carrying a large weapon, and more if he's trying to sneak quietly—but less time if he's a professional who's had training in this sort of thing—but would Jim hire a professional, or just blackmail anyone off the street? Would he keep it limited to just one sniper, or would he have backup? Would he consider it an insult to—

"Perhaps, but you won't take the risk," Jim says confidently, tipping him a knowing wink. "Not with  _him_ , anyway." And it makes him feel sick to acknowledge it, but he's right—the odds are too good that he'll follow through on his threat, and he can't let that happen, not after what he just did, not after...everything.

"John," Sherlock says, and then again, louder, never taking his eyes from Jim's face. "John, get out of here, please. I'll be along." He says it calmly, but he knows John will understand; knows the "please" especially will alert him that something is amiss. There is no reply from the other side of the door, and he knows that John has guessed. As if reading his mind, Jim smirks and says "And off he trots to call the police or something noble like that—I'd guess we have about, what, eight or nine minutes to chat 'til they arrive?" He checks his watch. "Plenty of time. Now, where were we?" He sticks his hands back in his pockets, frowning contemplatively. "Oh, yes. You were bleating that we weren't alike."

"We're not. You've killed people for sport. You try to act like you're a higher breed of criminal, but you're really just a common thug in a dapper suit." Dimly he knows that it's probably unwise to insult him so, but the comparison is just too offensive. And he wants to see what he'll do, too.

"Oh, so you do like it!" Jim spreads his fingers on his lapels, again flashing that unsettling smile. "I wanted to look smart just for you; I was  _so_  hoping you'd appreciate it. I know you're rather hard to please." He chuckles again. "But let's not be petty, shall we? I suppose I've been a bit naughtier than you have lately, but I think you know that we do what we do for the same reasons. Two sides of the same coin, if you will. And we do rather need each other."

"And how's that?"

"Now don't pretend. We've seen how you handle it when you're bored." He shakes his head again. "Not well. You need people like me to keep you amused, and more than that..." He pauses and begins to stroll around the edge of the pool, away from Sherlock. "I think it's more than amusement, really. I think you need us to give you...meaning, shall we call it? A  _raison d'être_ , as they say? I assumed that's why you didn't phone."

"Phone what? You? Did you not go to rather a lot of effort to prevent exactly that? The old woman—" Jim interrupts him with an impatient wave of the hand, reaching the corner of the pool and turning around back towards Sherlock.

"Well, of course I did, couldn't have your little friend Lestrade listening in, that would be rude," he says. "And he's not like us either, he and his merry band of coppers would have hindered my plans quite badly—no, no, that's why I gave my number to  _you._  Don't you remember?"

Sherlock stares at him as he continues to amble along the tiles, playing a game, trying to step in the middle of each square. "In the lab?" he says finally. "When you left...with Molly, you—" He clears his throat harshly. "You expect me to believe that was your real number all along?" He'd glanced at it only for the merest second—just a small bit of paper with "<3 your work, give us a call sometime! —Jim :)" and a series of numbers. 

"Well, I wanted to be charitable. I thought you might put it together sooner, and then we could've had a nice chat without all these... _theatrics._ " He gestures to the room around them and the vest on the floor. "And without involving your little manservant, of course." He nods at the door. "But you didn't, so I had to do all this, and I had to keep it up with  _her_..." He lifts both shoulders in a shudder. "That might have been the most challenging part of the whole thing, really."

"Molly? You really—for God's sake, just for the sake of the charade?" Not much can shock him, but this is a new low, going to the trouble of exploiting that poor clueless girl just for the fun of it. "That's pathetic."

"That is the word I'd pick, yes," Jim agrees, nodding and adopting a weary expression. "You should hear the way she bangs on about you, it's quite exhausting." He imitates her Northampton accent. "'Really, 'e's brilliant, it's just so  _admir’ble_  the way he really wants’a help, you know? Trying to solve all those crimes an' that.' Can't get enough of you. I'm surprised she never knocked you to the floor and tried to have it off with you right in the middle of the lab." He smiles lewdly and lowers his voice conspiratorially. "She doesn't think I notice, but I've even heard her say your name when we're... _together._ " He presses a hand primly to his heart and apes her voice again, breathy and soft: "'Oh, oh, Sherlock,  _yes,_  darling, just there—'"

"Stop it," Sherlock snaps, unable to help himself. "That's rubbish," he adds, although he doesn't know if it is. Jim just laughs.

"I suppose I shouldn't be so rude about dear little Molly—after all, we do  _rather_  have that in common. A...vested interest in you, that is." He bites his lower lip, his eyes raking Sherlock's form. "It's why I bothered; I thought she might be of use in getting to know you a bit better. Wasn't a very good plan in the end, though, was it. Because she doesn't know you." He takes a few steps closer. "No one really does, do they."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock allows, still standing his ground. "Although I'm not sure I need tips on social interaction from a murderer who doesn't even phone his own victims. It doesn't quite show a lot of pride in one's work."

Jim pokes his lip out and tilts his head, nodding. "True enough," he says. "But I've been waiting for you. No one else got an exclusive meet-and-greet like this. You ought to be flattered, dear."

"Surprisingly, I'm not." He hasn't taken his hand from his pocket and his fingers are slippery with sweat against the gun, but he's not gripping it tightly anymore. For some reason it's not fear he's feeling anymore. "And why, exactly, did you bother to orchestrate all of this just to tell me to 'back off'? That might have been accomplished just as well in a text. I thought you cared about efficiency."

"Oh, this is  _far_  more fun," Jim replies merrily. "And I think you know by now that I have a great sense of the whimsy about me." He lifts up on his toes for a moment, as if preparing to spring into the air. "Besides, be honest: are you really going to stop trying to get in my way? Has my little warning done anything but increased your..." He heaves a thoughtful sigh. "Your love of the puzzle?" He shakes his head, answering his own question. "We both know you're not going to back off at all. But fortunately, neither am I. That should reassure you."

"And why is that? Oh, because we—" he forces a wry laugh "— _need_  each other? You flatter yourself. There's no shortage of murderers and petty thieves out there; I daresay I'll always find something with which to occupy myself even after you're caught."

"But how many of them have put in the effort that I have? You don't like it when it's too easy. It's no fun that way. Admit it, I'm the only one who really challenges you, and you enjoy that far too much to just throw it away, hmm?" He raises a thin eyebrow. "All those others, I mean to say, they just do it for money or revenge or one of those silly, common things...but not me. And not you."

"No? What do you do it for, then?" Sherlock asks, trying to sound contemptuous, but dreading the answer.

"The same reason you do, of course," Jim replies softly, and takes another few steps closer to him. The light reflected from the water in the pool dances across him, making his jacket flicker light and dark. "For the love of it. You love a good challenge. And conveniently, so do I. In fact, perhaps I learned it from you." He frowns thoughtfully again. "Or, perhaps I've been doing this longer than you know and I've... _inspired_  you before. Who can really say?" He shrugs playfully. "But, either way, I think we're locked in this little tango forever. It's symbiotic, really. You say you're married to the job..." He spreads his hands. "I'm afraid I  _am_  the job these days, so..." He drags the word out, then smiles again, satisfied.

"And yet you claim you're going to—what was it? 'Burn the heart out of me'? And then kill me eventually?" Sherlock demands, aware that several minutes have passed and that John probably did call the police and that they are speeding towards the pool as they spoke. Somehow it's not at all a comforting thought. "How exactly does that fit into your little domestic vision?"

"Well, I confess I'm not looking forward to it, if that helps," he says, his expression quickly shifting to somber. "Truly, I'm not. But I'm afraid eventually I won't have a choice. We'll have our fun for a bit longer, but the honeymoon will end, as they do, and..." He sighs again. "Well, I imagine you'll get bored first and try to catch me or turn me in for real, and then I'll know you've lost it."

"Lost what?"

"That...drive, that curiosity. That... _sparkle_  that makes you so very special. Once you don't want to play the game anymore, then you'll just be another outcast too smart for your own good and, well...I just don't have a lot of patience for those, I'm afraid." He's only a few feet away now, still gazing straight into Sherlock's face. Sherlock can hear him breathing. "It would break my heart to see you waste all that..." His eyes flicker down over Sherlock's body again and then back up. His eyes are unnaturally dark, the irises almost entirely black. "Potential. To see you go ordinary, like one of them. Of course, you're already trying to, aren't you. With that little lapdog of yours."

"John's got nothing to do with this," he snaps, and immediately regrets it, knowing he's just 'shown his hand' yet again; Jim's smirk confirms it.

"He's got  _everything_  to do with it, and you know it," he replies coolly. "You're keeping him around because he makes you feel normal and lets you feel like someone  _likes_  you...I mean, that little trick he pulled was downright adorable." He mimes John grabbing him around the neck. "He was willing to  _die_  for you, Sherlock—no one's ever done that for you before, have they?" 

"Leave him out of this," Sherlock orders, his voice cold. "If this is really some battle of wills against us, then leave him be; he's nothing to you."

"But he's everything to you, sweet, and that's the problem, don't you see yet?" He tilts his head inquisitively. "No, no, I was wrong before; I thought dear Molly was the way to your heart, but it's the good doctor. It's terribly quaint of you. You should have seen your face when he came in here and you thought he'd betrayed you." He mimics Sherlock's wide-eyed look of shock. "It was quite darling, but it did prove my point: you're going a bit soft; you're letting your feelings for the little chap get in the way of your  _real_  passion." He leans his head in closer, as if divulging a secret. " _Don't_  let it happen. You're far too good for that. I'll see you dead before watching you give it all up for him. You let him into your heart like that and, well...it's just more to burn."

Sherlock hadn't even noticed that he'd reached out and taken ahold of his lapels. He shivers in surprise when he realizes—he doesn't much like to be touched, after all—but Jim doesn't let go. He just straightens his jacket, like a fussy wife, and says, looking right into his eyes, "So that's what I meant. We'll just carry on our little betrothal from afar. Don't try to stop me, because the day you really want to is the day I'll know you're not worth keeping around anymore. And then I'll take everything you've got."

There are distant noises then, doors bursting open and running footsteps. Sherlock's and Jim's heads turn simultaneously towards the door, and Jim releases him and takes a few steps back. "Finally!" he exclaims. "Blimey, took them long enough, didn't it?" He smiles. "Well, that's my exeunt music." He turns to leave.

"And I'm—" Sherlock clears his throat again, his voice having gone dry. "I'm just to let you go, then? Just like that?"

"Why, did you want a hug good-bye?" He spreads his arms and raises his eyebrows questioningly, and then laughs again. "Yes, that's right. I'm going to walk out of here now, and you're going to let me, because you wouldn't want to prove me right, would you?" Sherlock tightens his hold on the gun in his pocket, but doesn't move otherwise. Jim nods in satisfaction. "That's good. There's still a bit of fun in you yet."

There's a sound of numerous hurried footsteps just outside the door, and then an unfamiliar voice calls "Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes? Are you in there?" Jim just gestures to himself and then points with both hands to the door through which he'd come the first time, on the other side of the pool, and then then mouths  _see you later_  and waves his fingers at him as he walks off. Sherlock just watches him go, silently, knowing the police outside won't come bursting in until he responds, in case he's being held at gunpoint. It goes against everything he claims to believe to let him escape—and yet it doesn't, because it's all true: it's like John is there to show him who he could be, but Jim shows him who he is the best at being. He can't tell which is better, or worse.

The door closes quietly on the opposite side of the pool, and Sherlock, drawing a quick, shaky breath, calls back "Yes, I'm still here. It's all fine now."


End file.
